A Mage's Redemption
by theperksofbeingsera
Summary: A mage and an addict with no memory of her life before Suledin Keep, Isaura finds refuge within the Inquisition, but for how long? Will her desire to belong and be accepted, along with their desire to see Samson fall and a cure for red lyrium be enough to prove herself valuable to those in command and bring back the part of her that's missing?
1. Prologue

She takes a deep breath, trying to summon what little mana she has left to shield herself from the imminent battle. Her vision blurs in and out as she casts her barrier, causing her to collapse once more on the ground.

She needs it. It seared her veins, made them alive, and it called for her. They haven't come for her in weeks, and she is beginning to wonder, much to her despair, if they have forgotten her. Her palms are sweaty and shaky, her breaths shallow and scratches cover her scalp, attempts from stopping the music to no avail. She is overflowing with anxiety, desperate to escape. She hears its songs, sees it all around her, but the cage traps her, confines her.

Someone is here. They want to take what is hers, destroy her. She won't let them. They can't. It is hers. Footsteps echoed around the corner, and she scurries to the edge of the cage, hugging the foul ground, holding onto the rusted, weathered metal bars.

"Oh, shit."

"What Varr – what the fuck."

"My thoughts exactly."

She wants them to stop talking. They are interrupting the song, and she can't hum along. If she had any willpower left, she would have blasted them miles away. The songs helped her, made her stronger, but now they left her weak and cowering. The tall man approaches her prison, looking at her intently before stepping away to make room for the short man. His edges are tinted with red. She hisses, trying to push herself further away, but the metal bars keep her from doing so. Like a scared animal, she begins pawing into the ground, not caring that her fingertips are becoming bloody and dirty, ignoring the pain as she tries to dig into the stone, to no avail. She hears the cell door creak open, and she begins digging even faster, gasping when something- a hand, touches her shoulder, pulling her back as she scrambles to run from them.

"Be careful. This is not an ordinary mage. She's been…corrupted." A tall woman follows the other two men into the cell, hand reaching for her sword in contempt.

"The seeker's right. She's been corrupted by red lyrium." She doesn't understand them - can't follow what they are saying, but she likes the woman's voice. It is melodic and blocks out the song. It is nice when the song stops playing. Her head hurts less, and she can think. Tilting her head upwards, she nudges the woman's hand with her own, but she looks down, confused.

"What is she doing?" The woman asks, tentatively stepping away from her but she doesn't care. She is content. She spoke again, and it stopped the song. But when the woman stops talking, she grimaces, scratching her head to get rid of it. The song is already weak, and although it made her strong, when it stopped altogether, she could think. Thinking helped.

"I think she's taken a liking to you, Cassandra." Think. You. She cocks her head, not understanding. The voices in front of her are speaking, and she can comprehend what they were saying.

"We can't just leave her here. She'll die!" the woman exclaims, turning to the other men. Die. Her eyes widen, and she breaks free, scrambling, trying to climb up the metal bars, to run away.

"It seems you've hurt her feelings," the man remarks, sheathing the sword he has begun to draw. "I've never seen a mage corrupted by red lyrium. I want to take her back to Skyhold."

The woman sighs, disgruntled by the man, "You are just prolonging the inevitable."

"I don't think so," the man replies, grabbing hold of her forearm and pulling her towards them. "It looks as if she hasn't had a dose in a while."

"It will eventually consume her." The woman says, "but, perhaps she might be useful."

"She's confused. The song is so weak, barely heard." She jumps slightly as another person appears- out of thin air? - looking sympathetically at her. "She likes your voice," he says turning to the woman.

"She likes my voice?" The woman asks incredulously, clearing her throat.

"We still have the matter to deal with Imshael," the man points out, tightening his grip on her. She flinches in response, not liking the pain. She wants the woman to talk to her, and make the song stop. "Cole, I'm leaving her in your care."

_She sobs, flailing against the men that are trying to subdue her. "You are my mother! Why are letting them take me? Please don't let them take me!" She begs as the man's iron grip encircles her. "I'm not a danger, I swear! I'll never use it, I don't even want it! It's a curse!" She shouts, finally noticing her brother and sister standing beside mother in all the chaos. Her brother is shielding Amandine from the scene she is causing. Mother's cold, callous eyes stare at her. Lips curled downward in disgust. She thinks she's going to puke. Why is she doing this? One more glance at her siblings and she slumps against the templar's hold. _

"Cole is not exactly suitable for babysitting," the woman says, stepping in between the man and her. Through her blurred sight, she looks up at the woman, but all she sees is red. She sighs. Her vision is still tinted by the song.

"I need you and Varric with me," the man replies, pushing her towards the other man with the hat, and she stumbles forward, almost tripping over the force.

The man in front of her tentatively reaches out a hand for her to accept. She looks at it, unsure of how to react. What is she supposed to do? "It's okay." The man urges. "I won't hurt you." She shakes her head, knowing that she can't understand what he is saying. The song is getting louder, and her fingers immediately go to her head, and she begins nervously scratching, trying to push the song away.

Before she can begin, the same hand yanks her away, and she yelps in alarm. It has been a long time since another person had touched her and it burns. It burns and makes her feel alive.

She doesn't understand the meaning. She thought the song made her alive, at least that's what they told her when she was first, brought to them. Now, she needs it like the air she breathed, even now.

She feels the heat rise to her cheeks, and she averts her eyes away from him. "My name's Cole."

She cocks her head, "C-cole?" She repeated, the word slipping clumsily off her tongue. It was foreign. When was the last time she spoke? She can't remember. Everything is blurred.

The man nods his head, and she decides it will be okay. But she can still hear the lyrium singing to her, calling for her, and she watches as her knuckles turn white from clutching the man's hand.


	2. We Are Here

They say she is safe. Why did they lie? They throw into a cell, just like the others did. The woman, whose voice she likes, says it is for her own safety. But she doesn't feel safe.

She needs the song. Needs it. Needs it. Needs it. The woman tells her she's going through withdrawal, whatever that means. She doesn't stay. She leaves her with Cole, whose wide blue eyes make her feel safe yet alone. The scratching feeling returns, but he doesn't let her. She doesn't understand because it makes her feel better. He looks conflicted too. Instead, he stays and comforts her, hands running through her long and knotted red curls. She falls asleep soon after.

She doesn't know how long she is in the cell and upon awakening, she pisses herself. The waterfall doesn't help. Cole is no longer with her, and she feels something – an emotion she can't quite discern – overwhelm her. She picks at the cuticles on her nails, but boredom sets in soon after. Why did they take from one cell just to put her in another? That much she can't comprehend.

But its Maker knows how long time passes when people shuffle into the hold, watching her through the bars like she is a caged animal. She doesn't like it, so she hisses, grabbing a rock and readying it her hands.

They will not touch her. They will not hurt her. Not anymore.

But they don't. The woman opens the cage and hands her something soft. Clothes? She takes them from her, running her hand over it with curiosity. She has worn the same clothes for some time. The gesture is that of goodwill.

"Maker, this thing is not human." She flinches at the venom from the blonde-haired man next to the woman.

"Alexander seems to disagree.". It sounds like she is taking her side, but then she remembers she is still locked in this cell. The woman turns to her. "Would you put that rock down before you hurt yourself?"

She drops the rock, and it falls to the ground, dust settling around and she sneezes. The woman sounds like mother – mother! She remembers her, she thinks. Graying hair, a wagging finger, but a smile that makes her warm inside. Yes, she decides. This woman reminds her of mother.

"I wish you had written to me first before bringing it back. There are safety measures we could have taken to better prepare for holding such evil!"

"She is no harm to anyone but herself! Cassandra groans, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Can you help her?"

The man rubs the back of his neck. "I suppose so, but I do not know if it will work. Red lyrium is not the same as the lyrium Templars take. We must be prepared if – when it does not fare well."

The woman nods then glances her way. "We should find out her name if she has a family left. I'm sure they would want to know she's alive and safe. I will go speak with Leliana."

"And you want me to just… stay with her?" The man asks, uncertainty in his voice.

"She needs a proper meal. See if the cook can whip something up for her to eat." The woman responds, leaving her alone with the man.

The man turns to face her, and she can see the revulsion in his eyes. It does not bother her as much as she thought it would; she has been the recipient of this revulsion before.

"Are you hungry?" He asks, and it takes her a minute to comprehend what he's said, but when she does, her stomach growls. Yes, she supposes she is hungry. She stares at him for a long time, and he eventually looks away from her, rubbing his neck again. Oh.

"Yes," she answers, but it is too quiet, too dry. She licks her lips, running her tongue over their chapped surface. "Yes," she repeats, louder, and this time she has caught his attention. She nods her head, unsure if she can muster the strength to attempt speaking again.

He moves towards her cell, and she panics. One part of her is trying to tell her it's okay, that he's her friend. The other is telling her to defend herself. He is her enemy. He notices her reaction and reaches for his sword. This only increases her paranoia. She scampers to the farthest corner and watches him with weariness. It is then she realizes that the red is no longer there. Her vision is no longer tainted with red. She gasps, laughing but the laughter dies quick, as the man unsheathes his weapon.

He is going to kill her. He can't. She won't let him. But he doesn't; he unsheathes his sword, and it clatters to the ground. He raises his hands up.

She's…won?

He takes his time walking to her cell, slow, calculated steps and she watches every movement, eyes alert for any signs that he will attempt to kill her again. But there is none. He is just as vigilant. He opens the cell door and offers a gloved hand to her. She doesn't take it.

He sighs, withdrawing his hand and removing the gauntlet. "Do not try anything." He cautions, offering his hand again.

This time she takes it but as soon as she does a loud clatter nearby startles her and she yanks him, catching him off guard and he falls on top of her, trapping her. Even more scared than before, she scratches at his face, drawing blood and she hisses. He is pushing up off the ground, away from her, before she can attempt to mar him again, but she won't let him kill her. She runs at him, muttering gibberish but he grabs her by the shoulders, pressing down on them and she feels the pressure as he glares at her.

"I think I will go to the kitchen by myself," he says. He leads her back to her cell and scrambles to move away from him.

The cell shuts with a loud metallic creak, and she watches him leave. She turns her attention to the mouse that has scurried into her cell. She wonders what burnt fur smells like and because she's bored, she lights the mouse on fire, watching with curiosity as the thing convulses until it is nothing but ashes. Then she decides that singed fur does not smell pleasant, and it is not something she wants dissipating into her nostrils again.

It feels like forever when he returns with a tray of what smells like food. He balances the platter on one hand as he opens the gate to her cell again. He is watching her wearily. He does not trust her, and she does not blame him.

The lyrium has done this to her, and for a split second, she wishes for him to help her. Rid the lyrium from her body, but the thought disappears when the tray of food is placed in front of her. She does not notice how his body goes rigid and how fast he steps away from her because she is too busy stuffing herself with food. Roasted chicken, boiled vegetables and a small loaf of bread that is still warm. He locks the cell, with her in it and stands by it, watching her with _that_ gaze.

A templar's gaze.

It sends shivers down her spine. There are too many bad memories.

When she finishes, she licks her fingers of the grease and butter, savoring the flavor. She glances up at the man as warily as he's been eyeing her. "Thank you," she manages to say, just loud enough for him to hear. She downs the pitcher of water, knocking the goblet over in the process. She wishes it was redder and wishes this templar was not here.

"Do not thank me. Morris did not want to part with his food," He rebukes. His gait is stiff as he watches her, one hand on the hilt of his sword.

Templar.

She wants to hiss it, make him go away.

"Do you remember your name?" He asks. She slumps her shoulders in defeat. No, she thinks, I don't. She had been in that cell for too long. He doesn't seem surprised when she doesn't answer. "I suppose you wouldn't."

She wants to clutch her hands around his throat and wipe that smug look off his face.

They sit in silence. She pushes the tray away, the scraps making her sick to her stomach now, wishing she remembered her own name. How hard could it be? She remembers mother but sighs in misery. This is pointless. It is only because of the woman. "I remember mother." She says. "Graying hair, a wagging finger, and a warm smile." She recalls. How could she forget?

"Do you remember her name?" He enquires. She shakes her head. She just remembers she loved her. The warm, fuzzy feeling in her stomach leaves, however, replaced with fear and hate.

"I… hated her?" She confesses. Why does she hate her own mother?

"I was thirteen years old when I left home to join the Templars." He says.

She doesn't know why he tells her this. Doesn't care, and now definitely doesn't trust him.

"I left the Order behind when I joined the Inquisition." He says as if sensing her unease.

And she remembers now, why she hates her mother.

_She sobs, flailing against the men that are trying to subdue her. "You are my mother! Why are letting them take me? Please don't let them take me!" She begs as the man's iron grip encircles her. "I'm not a danger, I swear! I'll never use it, I don't even want it! It's a curse!" She shouts, finally noticing her brother and sister standing beside mother in all the chaos. Her brother is shielding Amandine from the scene she is causing. Mother's cold, callous eyes stare at her. Lips curled downward in disgust. She thinks she's going to puke. Why is she doing this? One more glance at her siblings and she slumps against the templar's hold. _

"She abandoned me. I was only nine and was a threat to people."

"You were luckier than some. I have witnessed babes being torn from their mothers. That is what the Chantry demanded."

She is getting a headache, trying to remember her past.

Taken.

She was taken from the Circle shortly after the Conclave. She was thrown in a cell and given the red, and when she began withering away instead of blooming into a flower she should've become, they tossed her aside.

Her nails find the soft skin of her arm and dig in. Deeper, deeper. She should have been what they wanted.

She wouldn't have lost the red if she were.

"Commander? The Inquisitor is requesting your presence in the war room." A woman's voice shouts nearby. He glances at her.

"I will have someone come by with more water." He says, turning away from her. Even as he walks away and she remains trapped in the cell, his hand never leaves the hilt of his sword.

_We are here. _


End file.
